THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  REPUBLIC 


A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  HOMESPUN  VERSE 


BY 


MADISON   CAWEIN 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  CINCINNATI 


COPYRIGHTED.  1913,  BY 
STEWART  <a  KIDD  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved. 
Copyright  in  England. 


P5 

1277 


To 
DR.  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

WHOSE   WORK  BOTH   IN   PROSE   AND   IN  POETRY 

HAS  DONE  SO  MUCH   TO  SUSTAIN   THE 

HIGH  STANDARD   OF   AMERICAN 

LITERATURE  DURING  THE 

PAST    QUARTER    OF 

A   CENTURY 


permission  to  reprint 
most  of  the  poems  in 
cluded  in  this  volume  ac 
knowledgment  is  due  "The 
Forum,"  in  which  "The 
Republic"  made  its  first 
appearance ;  "  The  North 
American  Review,"  "  The 
Smart  Set,"  "The  Youth's 
Companion,"  "The  Inde 
pendent,"  "The  Church 
man,"  "  The  Book  News 
Monthly,"  and  "Lippincott's 
Magazine." 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Republic,  -  9 

Mirage,  1 8 

Accomplishment,  22 

The  Wood  Brook,  23 

Happiness,  25 

The  Call  of  April,  -  27 

The  Briar  Rose,  29 

£  What  the  Flowers  Saw,  32 

The  Blue  Mertensia,  34 

!=  A  Mayapple  Flower,  35 

g  Solstice,  36 

3  An    Idyll,  38 

The  Menace,  40 

§?    Bryan's  Station,  42 

Moonshiners,  46 

Kentucky,  49 

Homespun,  53 

A  Light  in  the  Window,  55 

Victory,  57 

Home,  58 

Mother,  60 

The  Road  Back,  62 

The  Father,  64 

A  Baby,  65 

A  Song  of  Cheer,  66 

Little  Messages  of  Joy  and  Hope,  68 

The  Desire  of  the  Moth,  71 

Experience,  72 


459970 


in 

CM 


o 
o 


Love's  Calendar, 

The  Fountain  of  Love, 

Happiness, 

Adversity,  - 

Love  and  the  Sea, 

Loyalty, 

A  Tried  Friend,  A  True  Friend, 

So  Much  To  Do, 

In  the  Forest  of  Love, 

Love,  the  Song  of  Songs, 

Joy's  Magic, 

The  Best  of  Life, 

Joy, 

The  Rose  of  Hope, 

Hope  On, 

Hope, 

A  Song  of  Cheer, 

Work  - 

The  House  of  Life, 

Corncob  Jones, 


THE  REPUBLIC 


I 

THE  REPUBLIC 

\TOT  they  the  great 
*  ^   Who  build  authority  around  a  State, 
And  firm  on  calumny  and  party  hate 
Base  their  ambition.     Nor  the  great  are  they 
Who  with  disturbance  make  their  way, 
Mindful  of  but  to-day 
And  individual  ends  that  so  compel 
They  know  not  what  they  do,  yet  do  it  well. 
But  they  the  great 
Who  sacrifice  their  honor  for  the  State 
And  set  their  seal 
Upon  the  writing,  consecrate, 
Of  time  and  fate, 

That  says,  "He  suffered  for  a  People's  weal: 
Or,  calm  of  soul  and  eye, 
Helped  to  eliminate 

The  Madness  that  makes  Progress  its  wild  cry, 
And  for  its  policy- 
Self,  a  divinity, 
That  on  illusions  thrives, 
And  knows  not  whither  its  desire  drives 
Till  on  the  rocks  its  headlong  vessel  rives." 

II 

God  of  the  wise, 
On  whom  the  People  wait, 
And  who  at  last  all  evils  wilt  abate, 
Make  Thou  more  keen  men's  eyes: 

9 


Let  them  behold  how  Thou  at  length  wilt  bring, 

From  turmoil  and  confusion  now  that  cling 

About  the  Nation's  feet, 

Order  and  calm  and  peace 

With  harmony  of  purpose,  wing  to  wing — 

As  out  of  Chaos  sprang 

Light  and  its  co-mate,  Law,  when  loud  Thy 

summons  rang— 

High  instruments  of  power  never  to  cease, 
Spirits  of  destiny, 
Who  from  their  lofty  seat 
Shall  put  down  hate  and  strife's  insanity, 
And  all  contentions  old  that  eat 
The  country  to  the  quick: 

And  Common-Sense,  the  Lion-Heart,  now  sick, 
Forth  from  his  dungeon  cell 
Go  free, 

With  Song,  his  bold  Blondel; 
And,  stretching  forth  a  stalwart  arm 
To  laboring  land  and  sea, 
With  his  glad  coming  warm 
The  land  to  one  accord,  one  sympathy 
Of  soul;  whose  strength  shall  stand 
For  something  more  than  gold  to  all  the  land, 
Making  more  sure  the  ties 
Of  freedom  and  equality 
And  Progress;  who,  unto  the  watchful  skies, 
Unfurls  his  banner  and,  with  challenging  hand, 
Leads  on  the  world's  emprise. 


10 


Ill 

God  of  the  just  and  wise, 

Behold!  why  is  it  that  our  mortal  eyes 

Are  not  more  open  to  the  good  that  lies 

Around  our  feet? — the  blessings  in  disguise 

That  go  with  us  about  our  daily  deeds 

Attending  all  our  needs? 

Why  is  it  that,  so  rich  and  prodigal, 

We  will  complain 

Of  Nature — her  whose  liberal  hand, 

Summer  and  spring  and  fall, 

Pours  out  abundance  on  the  Land? 

Cotton  and  oil  and  grain — 

O  God,  make  men  more  sane ! 

Help  them  to  understand 

And  trust  in  her  who  never  failed  her  due; 

Who  never  camped  with  Famine  and  his  crew 

Or  made  ally 

Of  the  wild  House  of  old  Calamity! 

But  always  faithfully, 

Year  after  generous  year, 

From  forth  her  barque  of  plenty,  stanch  of  sail, 

Poured  big  abundance.    What  did  lies  avail, 

Or  what  did  fear 

To  make  her  largess  fail?     They  who  descry, 

Raising  a  hue  and  cry, 

Disaster's  Harpies  darkening  the  sky 

Each  month  that  comes  and  goes,  are  they  not 

less 

Of  insight  than  the  beasts  of  hill  and  field, 
Who  take  no  worry,  knowing  Earth  will  yield 
Her  usual  harvest — a  sufficiency 


For  all  and  more;  yea,  even  enough  to  bless 

The  sons  of  Greed,  who  make  a  market  of  lies 

And  blacken  blessings  unto  credulous  eyes, 

Turning  them  curses,  till  on  every  hand 

They  see,  as  Speculation  sees, 

God's  benefactions— rain,  and  sun,  and  snow — 

Working  destruction  in  the  land, 

The  camping-ground  of  old  hostilities, 

Changing  all  joy  to  woe 

With  visitations  of  her  wrath  withal, 

Proclaiming  her,  our  mother  Nature,  foe 

Undeviating,  to  our  hopes  below— 

Nature,  who  never  yet  has  failed  to  bless  us  all. 

IV 

By  the  long  leagues  of  cotton  Texas  rolls, 
And  Mississippi  bolls; 
By  the  wide  seas  of  wheat 
The  far  Dakotas  beat 

Against  the  barriers  of  the  mountainland : 
And  by  the  miles  of  maize 
Nebraska  lays 
Like  a  vast  carpet  in 
Her  House  of  Nights  and  Days, 
Where,  glittering,  in  council  meet 
The  Spirits  of  the  Cold  and  Heat, 
With  old  Fertility  whose  heart  they  win: 
By  all  the  wealth  replete 
Within  our  scan, 

From  Florida  to  where  the  snows  begin, 
Made  manifest  of  Nature  unto  Man — 
Behold! 

The  Land  is  as  a  mighty  scroll  unrolled, 

12 


Whereon  God  writes  His  name 

In  harvest:  green  and  gold 

And  russet  making  fair  as  oft  of  old 

Each  daedal  part  He  decorates  the  same 

With  splendors  manifold 

Of  mountains  and  of  rivers,  fruits  and  flowers; 

Sealing  each  passage  of  the  rubric  Hours 

With  esoteric  powers 

Of  life  and  love,  and  all  their  mystery, 

Through  which  men  yet  may  see 

The  truth  that  shall  refute  the  fool  that  cries, 

"God  has  forgot  us  and  our  great  emprise!" 


Of  elemental  mold 

God  made  our  Country,  wombing  her  with  gold 
And  veining  her  with  copper,  iron,  and  coal. 
Making  her  strong  for  her  appointed  goal. 
High  on  her  eagled  peaks  His  rainbow  gleams 
Its  mighty  message:  in  her  mountain  streams 
His  voice  is  heard:  and  on  the  wind  and  rain 
Ride  Potencies 

And  Portents  of  His  purpose,  while  she  dreams 
Of  great  achievements,  great  activities, 
And,  weariless  of  brain, 
From  plain  to  busy  plain, 
And  peak  to  plateau,  with  unresting  hand, 
Along  the  laboring  land, 
She  speeds  swift  train  on  train, 
Feeling  the  urge  in  her  of  energies, 
That  bear  her  business  on 
From  jubilant  dawn  to  dawn, 

13 


From  where  the  snow  makes  dumb 

Alaskan  heights,  to  where,  like  hives  of  bees, 

The  prairies  hum 

With  cities;  while  around  her  girdling  seas 

Ships  go  and  come, 

Servants  and  slaves  of  her  vast  industries. 

VI 

And  He,  who  sits  above, 

And,  watching,  sees 

Her  dreams  become  great  actualities, — 

Out  of  His  love 

Will  He  continue  to  bestow 

Blessings  upon  her,  even  more  and  more, 

Until  their  store 

Shall  pass  the  count  of  all  the  dreams  we  know? 

Why  heed 

The  sordid  souls  that  worship  Greed? 

The  vampire  lives  that  feed, 

Feast  and  grow  fat 

On  what  they  name  the  Proletariat ; 

Wringing  with  blood  and  sweat, 

From  forth  the  nation's  muscle,  heart,  and  brain, 

The  strength  that  keeps  her  sane : 

They,  too,  shall  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be. 

Ignoble  souls,  who,  for  a  market,  set 

Before  the  People's  eyes 

A  scarecrow  train 

Of  fabrications, — rumors,  antic  lies 

Of  havoc  and  calamity,— 

Panic  appearances  of  Famine,  War, 

That  for  the  moment  bar 

The  path  of  Truth  and  work  their  selfish  gain. 

14 


VII 

God  of  the  simple  and  the  wise, 

Grant  us  more  light;  and  lead 

The  great  adventure  to  its  mighty  end ! 

From  Thy  o'erarching  skies 

Still  give  us  heed, 

And  make  more  clear  the  way  that  onward  lies. 

Not  wealth  now  is  her  need, 

The    great    Republic's,— Wealth,    the    child    of 

Greed,— 

Nay,  nay!    O  God,  but  for  the  dream  we  plead, 
The  dream  as  well  as  deed, 
The  Dream  of  Beauty  which  shall  so  descend 
From  Thee,  and  with  her  inmost  being  blend, 
That  it  shall  help  her  cause 
More  than  all  temporal  laws.     .     .     . 


VIII 

Now,  for  her  soul's  increase, 

And  spirit's  peace, 

Curb  the  bright  daemon  Speed; 

Grant  her  release 

From  strife;  and  let  the  joy  that  springs 

From  love  of  lowly  things 

Possess  her  soul  and  plead 

For  work  that  counts  for  something  to  the  heart, 

And  grows  immortal  part 

Of  life — the  work  called  Art; 

And  let  Love  lead 

Her  softly  all  her  days;  with  quiet  hand 

Sowing  the  fruitful  land 

15 


With  spiritual  seed 

Of  wisdom  from  which  blossoms  shall  expand 
Of  vital  beauty,  and  her  fame  increase 
More  than  the  wealth  of  all  the  centuries. 


IX 

God  of  the  wise, 

The  meek  and  humble,  who  still  look  to  Thee, 
Holding  to  sanity 

And  truth  and  purpose  of  the  great  emprise, 
Keep  her  secure, 
And  beautiful  and  pure 
As  when  in  ages  past  Thou  didst  devise, 
Saying  within  Thy  heart,  "She  shall  endure! — 
A  great  Republic!" — Let  her  course  be  sure, 
O  God,  and,  in  detraction's  spite, 
Unquestionably  right; 
And  in  the  night, 

If  night  there  must  be,  light  a  beacon  light 
To  guide  her  safely  through  the  strife, 
The  conflict  of  her  soul,  with  passions  rife. 
Oh,  raise  some  man  of  might, 
Whose  mind  shall  put  down  storm  and  stress  of 

life, 

And  kindle  anew  the  lamp  whose  light  shall  burn, 
A  Pharos,  in  the  storms, 
That  shall  arise  and  with  confusion  shake 
Foundations  of  the  walls  of  Civilization : 
A  pillar  of  flame,  behold,— 
Like  that  of  old, 
Which  Israel  followed  and  its  bondage  brake,— 

16 


Leading  each  night-lost  Nation 

To  refuge  in  her  arms, — 

Freedom's, — away  from  all  the  Tyrannies 

Of  all  the  Centuries, 

Safe  on  her  heart  to  learn 

To  hush  its  heart's  alarms. 


17 


MIRAGE 

Scene,  the  Arizona  Desert,  its  most  desolate  part. 

LJE  closed  his  eyes,  yet  still  could  see 

*•  *  The  leprous  hills  loom  thirstily; 

The  mesquit  glimmering;  and  the  dust 

Of  alkali;  and,  rimmed  with  rust 

Of  emerald,  a  mineral  pool 

From  which  his  horse  had  drunk  him  full. 

Now  he  would  drink — how  good  to  die 

After  the  torture  days  gone  by! 

And  so  he  rose,  and  through  the  sage 

And  sand  groped,  blind  with  thirst,  and  rage 

At  God,  whose  hand  in  hate  had  wrought 

This  trap  of  hell  where  he  was  caught. 

Now  what  was  this  that  held  him  fast? 
Had  he  then  reached  relief  at  last, 
After  long  years  of  heat  and  hate? 
Surely  there  rose  a  marble  gate, 
A  towered  castle!  and  the  sand 
And  sage  had  vanished  from  the  land. 

He  entered  where  a  fountain  fell 
On  foaming  crystal — Like  a  spell 
He  caught  its  freshness.     Then  his  ear 
Heard  lute-like  music  drawing  near; 
And  through  a  rainbowed  mist  a  girl 
Beckoned,  her  beauty  like  a  pearl. 

18 


And  there  two  slave-girls  on  a  mat, 
Two  naked  Nubians,  drowsing,  sat, 
Fingering  dim-gemmed  and  nacreous  lutes; 
He  knew  at  once  that  they  were  mutes, 
And  this  the  same  Seraglio, 
Where  love  had  met  him  lives  ago. 

The  entrance  doors  he  knew  were  nine: 
Three  were  of  agate,  red  as  wine, 
And  three  of  lapis-lazuli, 
Cerulean-blue  as  is  the  sky; 
And  three  of  feldspar,  veined  with  gold, 
Each  leading  to  her  bower  of  old. 

Behind  a  lattice  or  a  screen 

He  knew  she  smiled  and  watched,  unseen : 

He  felt  her  presence  in  the  gloom 

As  one  may  sense  a  strange  perfume: 

And  musk  of  myrrh  and  sandalwood 

Were  guides  to  lead  him  where  she  stood. 

Once  more  he  'd  see  her;  hold  her  fast, 
Come  back  again  from  out  the  past; 
And,  locked  in  her  divine  embrace, 
Watch,  in  the  heaven  of  her  face, 
The  ardor  of  her  heart's  desire 
Change  her  dark  eyes  to  starry  fire. 

And  then  far-off  he  heard  a  horn, 
And,  turning,  saw  that  it  was  morn— 
And  there  she  rode,  in  dawn  and  dew, 
And  with  her  Chevaliers  he  knew. 
The  horn  led  on;  he  heard  its  song— 
The  air  he  had  forgot  so  long : 

19 


"How  good,"  it  sang,  "How  good  at  dawn 

To  ride  with  her  of  Roussillon! 

To  ride  with  her  through  dawn  and  dew 

Beneath  a  heaven  gentian-blue, 

With  hawk  on  wrist,  a  madcap  crew, — 

That  wild  the  horn  leads  on,— 

With  her  of  Roussillon! 

To  hear  the  falcons'  jesses  ringing 

Bells  that  set  the  pulses  singing! 

To  see  the  heron  wildly  winging, 

O'er  mountained  Roussillon, 

Far,  towered  Roussillon. 

"How  good  to  hear  by  wood  and  lawn 

Our  Lady  laugh  of  Roussillon ! 

Where  wild  the  torrent  leaps  the  crag, 

Through  mists  that  on  the  mountain  lag, 

As  in  the  forest  leaps  the  stag, — 

While  clear  the  horn  leads  on, 

With  her  of  Roussillon! 

How  good  to  hear  the  falcon  crying, 

To  see  it  strike  the  quarry  flying, 

And  watch  the  stricken  lapwing  dying 

By  towered  Roussillon, 

Old,  mountained  Roussillon!" 

The  music  died.     His  hot  head  swung 

Upon  his  neck  as  wire-hung, 

And  he  awoke  to  see  again 

The  thirsty  peaks,  the  fevered  plain, 

Shutting  him  in  with  all  their  hate, 

Malignantly,  content  to  wait. 

20 


Was  it  a  dream  of  some  old  past? 
Or  would  he  see  her  there  at  last? 
He  sat  and  thought;  no  thing  occurred. 
The  desert  watched  him,  never  stirred; 
Like  some  gaunt  beast  with  burning  eyes 
It  stared  at  him  with  all  its  skies. 

Around  he  gazed  and  searched  again 
The  peaks,  like  blisters  on  the  plain; 
No  creature  moved.     The  pool  nearby 
With  its  green  glitter  caught  his  eye. 
Yes,  he  would  drink,  and  know  at  last 
That  secret  of  the  long-gone  past. 

They  found  him  in  that  poisoned  place 
With  blackened  lips  and  twisted  face — 
Dead — with  seared  eyes  on  something  far, 
Some  unknown  thing — perhaps  a  star— 
Or  was  't  the  gold,  for  which  he  'd  sought? 
The  far  mirage  that  turned  to  naught? 


21 


ACCOMPLISHMENT 

LJOLD  to  the  rapture:  let  it  work 
*•  *•     Inward  till  founts  of  being  fill, 
And  all  is  clear  that  once  was  murk, 

And  Beauty's  self  rise,  mirrored  still, 
Before  the  mind,  that  shall  devise 
New  forms  of  earth  to  realize. 

Let  it  possess  the  heart  and  soul, 

And  through  the  two  evolve  the  one, 

And  so  achieve  th'  immortal  goal 

Of  something  great  that  man  has  done: 

Pouring  his  thought,  his  dream  intense, 

Into  the  molds  of  permanence. 

Within  the  compass  of  extremes 

Science  and  Art  their  worlds  have  set, 

Wherein  the  soul  fulfills  its  dreams, 
And  evermore,  without  a  let, 

Swift,  eagle-like,  free,  unconfined, 

Soars  to  new  altitudes  of  mind. 


22 


THE  WOOD  BROOK 

IKE  some  wild  child  that  laughs  and  weeps, 
•*— '     Impatient  of  its  mother's  arms, 
The  wood  brook  from  the  hillside  leaps, 

Eager  to  reach  the  neighboring  farms: 
Complaining  crystal  in  its  throat 
It  whimpers  a  protesting  note. 

The  wildflowers  that  the  forest  weaves 

To  deck  it  with  are  thrust  aside ; 
And  all  the  little  happy  leaves, 

That  would  detain  it,  are  denied: 
It  must  be  gone;  it  does  not  care; 
Away,  away,  no  matter  where. 

Ah,  if  it  knew  what  work  awaits 

Beyond  the  woodland's  peaceful  breast ! 

What  toil  and  soil  of  man's  estates ! 
What  contact  with  life's  sorriest, 

A  different  mind  it  then  might  keep, 

And  hush  its  frenzy  into  sleep. 

Make  of  its  trouble  there  a  pool, 
A  dim  circumference  filled  with  sky 

And  trees,  wherein  the  beautiful 
Contemplates  silence  with  a  sigh, 

As  mind  communicates  with  mind 

Of  intimate  things  they  have  in  kind. 


23 


Encircled  of  the  wood's  repose, 

Contentment  then  to  it  would  give 

The  peace  of  lily  and  of  rose, 

And  love  of  all  wild  things  that  live; 

And  let  it  serve  as  looking-glass 

For  myths  and  dreams  the  wildwood  has. 


24 


HAPPINESS 

'  I  'HERE  is  a  voice  that  calls  to  me;  a  voice  that  cries 
*•      deep  down; 
That  calls  within  my  heart  of  hearts  when  Summer 

doffs  her  crown : 
When  Summer  doffs  her  crown,  my  dear,  and  by  the 

hills  and  streams 
The  spirit  of  September  walks  through  gold  and  purple 

gleams : 
It  calls  my  heart  beyond  the  mart,  beyond  the  street 

and  town, 
To  take  again,   in  sun  or  rain,   the  oldtime   trail  of 

dreams. 

Oh,  it  is  long  ago,  my  dear,  a  weary  time  since  we 
Trod  back  the  way  we  used  to  know  by  wildwood  rock 

and  tree: 
By  mossy  rock  and  tree,  dear  Heart,  and  sat  below 

the  hill, 
And  watched  the  wheel,  the  old  mill-wheel,  turn  round 

on  Babbit's  mill: 
Or  in  the  brook,  with  line  and  hook,  to  dronings  of 

the  bee, 
Waded  or  swam,   above  the  dam,   and  drank  of  joy 

our  fill. 

The  ironweed  is  purple  now ;  the  blackeyed-Susans  nod ; 
And  by  its  banks,   weighed  down  with  wet,   blooms 

bright  the  goldenrod: 
Blooms  bright   the  goldenrod,    my   dear,    and   in   the 

mist  of  morn 

25 


The  gray  hawk  soars  and  screams  and  soars  above  the 

dripping  corn: 
And  by  the  pool,  cerulean  cool,  the  milkweed  bursts 

its  pod, 
As  through  the  air  the  wild  fanfare  rings  of  the  hunter's 

horn. 

The  hunter's   horn   we  heard,   my   dear,    that   echoed 

'mid  the  rocks, 
And  cheered  the  hounds  whose  belling  bay  trailed  far 

behind  the  fox: 
Trailed  far  behind  the  fox,  dear  Heart,  whose  den  we 

oft  had  seen, 
A  cave-like  place  within  the  woods  wild-hid  in  trailing 

green : 
Old   Owlet's    Roost,  wherein  we  used  to  search,  with 

tangled  locks, 
For  buried  gold,  where,  we  were  told,  the  bandit's  lair 

had  been. 

O  gladness  of  the  long-gone  years!     O  boyhood's  days 

and  dreams! 
Again  my  soul  would  trace  with  you  the  oldtime  woods 

and  streams: 
The  oldtime  woods  and  streams,  dear  Heart,  and  seek 

again,  I  guess, 
The  buried  gold,  we  sought  of  old,  and  find  it  none 

the  less 
Still  in  the  ground,  fast  sealed  and  bound,  among  the 

glooms  and  gleams, 
As  long  ago  we  left  it  so,  the  gold  of  Happiness. 


26 


THE  CALL  OF  APRIL 

APRIL  calling,  April  calling, 
April  calling  me! 
I  hear  the  voice  of  April  there 

In  each  old  apple  tree: 
Bee-boom  and  wild  perfume, 
And  wood-brook  melody,— 
O  hark,  my  heart,  and  hear,  my  heart, 
The  April  Ecstasy! 

Hark  to  the  hills,  the  oldtime  hills, 

That  talk  with  sea  and  sky ! 
Or  speak  in  murmurs  with  God's  winds 

Who  on  their  bosoms  lie: 
Bird-call  and  waterfall 

And  white  clouds  blowing  by, 
O  hark,  my  heart,  O  hear,  my  heart, 

The  April's  cosmic  cry! 

There  runs  a  whisper  through  the  woods, 

The  word  of  bough  to  bough, 
A  sound  of  dead  things  donning  green, 

Of  Beauty  waking  now: 
Fern-bower  and  wilding  flower, 

Each  like  a  prayer  or  vow,— 
O  see,  my  heart,  O  look,  my  heart, 

Where  Earth  crowns  white  her  brow! 

And  far  away,  and  far  away, 

Yet  nearer  than  she  seems, 
Look  where  she  takes  the  oldtime  trail 

And  walks  again  with  dreams: 

27 


Bird  note  and  blue  remote 
And  laughter  of  wild  streams, — 

O  hark,  my  heart,  O  hear,  my  heart, 
And  follow  where  she  gleams! 

Earth  has  put  off  her  winter  garb 

Of  gray  and  drab  and  dun, 
And  robes  herself  in  raiment  green 

Of  love  and  laughter  spun: 
Wood-bloom  and  wood-perfume 

And  colors  of  the  sun,— 
O  hark,  my  heart,  O  hear,  my  heart, 

Where  her  wild  footsteps  run! 

O  April,  mother  of  my  soul, 

Take  to  your  heart  your  child : 
And  let  him  lie  a  little  while 

Upon  its  rapture  wild: 
Lean  close  and  near,  and  let  him  hear 

The  words  that  once  beguiled, 
And  on  his  eyes  the  kiss  again 

Of  longing  reconciled. 

O  kiss,  that  fills  the  fields  with  flowers 

And  thrills  with  green  each  grove, 
Dream  down  into  this  heart  again 

And  grow  to  songs  thereof: 
Wild  songs  in  singing  throngs, 

That  swift  shall  mount  above, 
And,  like  to  birds,  with  lyric  words, 

Take  Earth  and  Heaven  with  love. 


28 


THE  BRIAR  ROSE 

V/OUTH,  with  an  arrogant  air, 

•*•       Passes  me  by: 
Age,  on  his  tottering  staff, 
Stops  with  a  sigh. 

"Here  is  a  flower,"  he  says, 

"I  knew  when  young: 
It  keeps  its  oldtime  place 

The  woods  among. 

"Fresh  and  fragrant  as  when 

I  was  a  boy; 
Still  is  it  young  as  then, 

And  full  of  joy. 

"Years  have  not  changed  it,  no; 

In  leaf  and  bloom 
It  keeps  the  selfsame  glow, 

And  the  same  perfume. 

"Time,  that  has  grayed  my  hair, 

And  bowed  my  form, 
Retains  it  young  and  fair 

And  full  of  charm. 

"The  root  from  which  it  grows 

Is  firm  and  fit, 
And  every  year  bestows 

New  strength  on  it. 

29 


"Not  so  with  me.     The  years 
Have  changed  me  much; 

And  care  and  pain  and  tears 
Have  left  their  touch. 

"It  keeps  a  sturdy  stock, 
And  blooms  the  same, 

Beside  the  selfsame  rock 
Where  I  carved  my  name. 

"My  name? — I  do  not  know 

It  is  my  own.— 
'T  was  carved  so  long  ago, 

'T  is  moss-o'ergrown." 

(He  stoops  beside  the  flower. 

He  feels  its  need. 
And  for  a  thoughtful  hour 

He  gives  it  heed. 

(It  beggars  him,  it  seems, 

In  heart  and  mind, 
Of  memories  and  dreams 

Of  days  once  kind.) 

"It  gives  and  I  must  take 
Thoughts  sweet  with  pain; 

And  feel  again  the  ache 
Of  the  all-in-vain. 

"If  it  could  understand 

All  it  implies 
Of  loss  to  me  who  planned 

In  life's  emprise, 

30 


"It  would  not  look  so  fair, 
Nor  flaunt  its  youth, 

But  strip  its  branches  bare, 
And  die  of  ruth. 

"Ah  me!  days  come  and  go; 

And  I  am  old— 
This  wild  rose  tells  me  so, 

As  none  has  told. 

"Had  it  not  played  a  part 

In  a  love  long  past, 
It  would  not  break  my  heart 

With  loss  at  last." 


31 


WHAT  THE  FLOWERS  SAW 

CHE  came  through  shade  and  shine, 
*3  By  scarlet  trumpetvine 
And  fragrant  buttonbush, 
That  heaped  the  wayside  hush— 

And  oh! 
The  orange-red  of  the  butterfly  weed, 

And  pink  of  the  milkweed's  plume, 
Nodded  as  if  to  give  her  heed 

As  she  passed  through  gleam  and    gloom, 
heigh-ho ! 

As  she  passed  through  gleam  and  gloom. 

Marybud-gold  her  hair; 
And  deep  as  it  was  fair; 
Her  eyes  a  chicory-blue, 
Two  wildflowers  bright  with  dew — 

And  oh! 
The  flowers  knew,  as  flowers  know, 

The  one  she  'd  come  to  find; 
They  read  the  secret  she  hid  below 

In  her  maiden  heart  and  mind,  heigh-ho! 

Her  maiden  heart  and  mind. 

All  day  with  hearts  elate, 
They  watched  him  from  the  gate, 
Where  in  the  field  he  mowed 
At  the  end  of  the  old  hill-road — 

And  oh! 

They  seemed  to  see  with  their  petaled  eyes 
The  thing  he  was  thinking  of, 
32 


And  whispered  the  wind,  in  secret-wise, 
All  that  they  knew  of  love,  heigh-ho! 
All  that  they  knew  of  love. 

No  matter  what  befell 
Not  one  wildflower  will  tell; 
Not  one,  that  leaned  to  look 
And  see  the  kiss  he  took — 

And  oh! 
The  things  they  said  in  the  woodland  there 

You  must  ask  of  the  wandering  breeze, 
Who  whispers  all  news  of  earth  and  air, 

And  is  gossip  of  the  trees,  heigh-ho! 

Old  gossip  of  the  trees. 


33 


THE  BLUE  MERTENSIA 

""THIS  is  the  path  he  used  to  take, 

That  ended  at  a  rose-porched  door: 
He  takes  it  now  for  oldtime's  sake, 
And  love  of  yore. 

The  blue  mertensia,  by  the  stone, 

Lifts  questioning  eyes,  that  seem  to  say, 

'Why  is  it  now  you  walk  alone 
On  this  dim  way?" 

And  then  a  wild  bird,  from  a  bough, 
Out  of  his  heart  the  answer  takes: 

"He  walks  alone  with  memory  now 
And  heart  that  breaks. 

"And  Loss  and  Longing,  witches,  who 
Usurp  the  wood  and  change  to  woe 

The  dream  of  happiness  he  knew 
Long,  long  ago. 

"The  faery  princess,  from  whose  gaze 
The  blue  mertensia  learned  that  look, 

Retaining  still  beside  these  ways 
The  joy  it  took." 

He  listens,  conscious  of  no  part 
In  wildwood  question  and  reply — 

The  wood,  from  out  its  mighty  heart, 
Heaves  one  deep  sigh. 


34 


A  MAYAPPLE  FLOWER 

Vjf/HAT  magic  through  your  snowy  crystal  gleams ! 
™    Your  hollow  spar,  Spring  brims  with  f ragrancy ; 
That,  like  the  cup  of  Comus,  drugs  with  dreams 
This  woodland  place,  so  drowsed  with  mystery. 
What  miracle  evolved  you  from  the  mold? 
Dreamed  you,  as  't  were,  into  reality 
Out  of  the  Winter's  death  and  night  and  cold? 

Are  you  a  sign,  a  message,  that  the  Spring 
Out  of  her  soul  unto  the  eye  reveals? 
A  symboled  something,  telling  many  a  thing 
Of  beauty  she  within  her  breast  conceals? 
The  word  significant,  that  conquers  Death; 
That  through  eternity  with  Nature  deals, 
As  did  the  Christ,  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

Or,  of  the  rapture  of  the  Earth  a  part, 

Are  you  a  thought  that  crystallized  from  dew 

Into  a  flower?     Nature,  on  her  heart,— 

Bewildered  with  the  hope  from  whence  you  grew 

Your  loveliness, — wears  as  an  evidence 

Of  immortality;  a  hint,  a  clue 

To  that  which  still  evades  our  mortal  sense. 


SOLSTICE 

PHE  ant  is  busy  with  its  house, 

The  bee  is  at  its  tree; 
And  by  its  nest  among  the  boughs 

The  bird  makes  melody. 
The  Day,  reluctant  still  to  leave, 

Sits  crystal  at  its  noon, 
Like  some  sweet  girl,  with  naught  to  grieve, 

Sighing  a  dreamy  tune. 
Oh,  hark,  my  heart,  and  quit  your  quest! 
The  song  she  sighs  is  one  of  rest. 

The  butterfly  is  on  its  flower; 

The  wasp  is  at  its  clay; 
The  wind  to  bramble  lane  and  bower 

Whispers  of  yesterday. 
The  Afternoon  goes  to  its  close, 

With  bright  attendant  states, 
Like  some  calm  queen  who  seeks  repose 

Behind  her  palace  gates. 
Oh,  look,  my  heart,  your  pining  cease! 
That  way,  at  last,  you  shall  find  peace. 

The  cricket  trills;  the  beetle  booms; 

The  mole  heaves  at  its  mound: 
Pale  moths  come  forth  like  ghosts  of  blooms; 

The  firefly  goes  its  round. 
The  eve  puts  off  her  gown  of  gold, 

And  for  a  moment  stands 

36 


Before  her  couch,  a  lamp  of  old, 
The  new  moon,  in  her  hands. 
Oh,  heart,  go  follow  where  it  gleams, 
And  find  again  your  world  of  dreams. 

The  life  that  wakes  at  dark  comes  out ; 

The  spider  nimbly  weaves; 
The  bat  flits  silently  about; 

The  drowsy  owlet  grieves. 
The  Night  goes  stealing  to  her  tryst, 

Breathing  a  fragrant  sigh; 
One  jewel  from  her  starry  wrist 

Drops  down  the  quiet  sky. 
Heart,  let  it  be  a  sign  to  you 
Of  love  behind  the  bending  blue. 


37 

459970 


AN  IDYLL 

LIE  was  a  boy,  sun-burned  and  brown, 

*  •*•  And  she  a  girl  from  a  neighboring  town: 

Dark  were  her  eyes  and  dark  her  hair, 

And  her  cheeks  as  red  as  the  ripe  peach  there: 

Dainty  and  sweet,  with  a  far-away 

Look  in  her  eyes  like  the  skies  of  May. 

And  it  came  to  pass  one  afternoon 

She  walked  in  the  fields;  and  the  month  was  June: 

In  the  hay-heaped  fields  and  the  meadowland 

With  trees  and  hills  on  either  hand. 

And  the  lad,  who  worked  on  her  father's  farm, 

Had  laid  him  down  all  tired  and  warm. 

He  had  been  toiling  day  after  day 

Mowing  and  raking  and  hilling  the  hay. 

And  now  at  last,  with  his  work  well  done, 

He  slept  by  a  stack  away  from  the  sun. 

And  she,  who  came  with  her  young  head  full 

Of  thoughts  that  never  are  learned  in  school,— 

Young  dreams  and  fancies  no  girl  knows  of 

Unless  she  is  far  on  the  road  to  love, — 

When  she  saw  him  there,  where  he  lay  and  slept, 

A  little  nearer  she  cautiously  stept: 

Then  stood,  big-eyed,  and  looked  around, 

As  if  afraid  of  the  one  she  'd  found ; 

Of  him  she  knew  not,  who  seemed  to  take 

Her  heart  in  a  hold  she  could  not  break. 

He  looked  so  tired  and  young  and  hot, 

That  an  impulse  swept  her,  she  scarce  knew  what : 

38 


Primitive,  wild,  that  would  not  wait, 

That    cried   in    her   blood,     "There  lies   your 

mate!" 

And  all  was  still,  save  the  cricket's  shrill, 
And  the  breeze  that  blew  from  the  wooded  hill. 
And  so  she  stood  with  a  foot  back-drawn, 
Like  a  Nymph  that  comes  on  a  sleeping  Faun : 
Then  stooped  and  kissed  him,  and  turned  and  fled, 
Sobbing,  her  heart  of  itself  adread. 

But  he  who  lay  in  the  hay  slept  on, 
And  never  knew  what  had  come  and  gone: 
The  love  that  had  bent  to  his  life  and  kissed— 
That  something,  called  fate,  which  each  has  missed. 


39 


THE  MENACE 

TTHE  hat  he  wore  was  full  of  holes, 
*    And  his  battered  shoes  were  worn  to  the  soles. 
His  shirt  was  a  rag,  held  together  with  pins, 
And  his  trousers  patched  with  outs  and  ins. 
A  negro  tramp,  a  roustabout, 
Less  safe  than  a  wild  beast  broken  out : 
And  like  to  a  beast,  he  slouched  along 
The  lane  which  the  birds  made  sweet  with  song : 
Where  the  wild  rose  wooed  with  golden  eyes 
The  honeybees  and  the  butterflies. 
But  the  bird's  glad  song  and  the  scent  of  the  rose 
Meant  nothing  to  him  of  the  love  man  knows. 
If  he  heard  or  heeded  't  was  but  to  curse- 
Love  had  no  place  in  his  universe. 

And  there  in  the  lane  one  met  with  him — 
A  girl  of  ten  who  was  fair  and  slim: 
A  farmer's  daughter,  whose  auburn  hair 
Shone  bright  as  a  sunbeam  moving  there: 
And  bare  of  head,  as  she  was  of  foot, 
She  passed  the  tramp  with  a  smiled  salute. 
She  bore  in  her  hand,  that  was  dark  with  stain, 
A  pail  of  berries  she  'd  picked  i'  the  lane. 
Without  a  word  he  let  her  pass 
Like  a  wildrose  nodding  above  the  grass. 
Innocent,  trusting,  free  from  guile, 
She  met  his  look  with  a  friendly  smile. 
And  he?     He  laughed  when  the  child  had  passed, 
And  a  furtive  glance  about  him  cast, — 

40 


Then  turned  and  followed.     His  chance  was  now 
To  serve  the  Whiteman  out  somehow. 
He  would  get  even  for  many  a  kick. — 
Now  was  his  time  to  turn  a  trick. 

Next  day  they  found  her,  battered  and  torn, 
Her  small  child's  body  hid  under  a  thorn. 
And,  oh !  I  wonder,  good  brother  of  mine, 
Why  God  in  His  Heaven  gave  never  a  sign. 
Why  she,  the  lovely,  the  young,  the  shy, 
Like  a  beast  of  the  field  should  have  to  die: 
While  he,  the  hideous,  kin  to  the  ape, 
God,  in  His  Heaven,  should  let  escape. 


41 


BRYAN'S  STATION 

During  the  siege  of  Bryan's  Station.  Kentucky,  August  16th,  1782, 
Nicholas  Tomlinson  and  Thomas  Bell,  two  inhabitants  of  the  Fort,  under 
took  to  ride  through  the  besieging  Indian  and  Tory  lines  to  Lexington,  Ky., 
for  aid.  It  happened  also  during  this  siege  that  the  pioneer  women  of  the 
Fort,  when  the  water  supply  was  exhausted,  heroically  carried  water  from  a 
spring,  at  a  considerable  distance  outside  the  palisades  of  the  Station,  to  its 
inmates  and  defenders,  under  the  very  guns  of  the  enemy. 

tightened  stirrup;  buckled  rein; 
Looked  to  our  saddle-girths  again ; 
Shook  hands  all  round;  then  mounted. 
The  gate  swung  wide:  we  said,  "Good-bye." 
No  time  for  talk  had  Bell  and  I . 
One  cried,  "God  speed!"  another,  "Fly!" 
As  out  we  rode  to  do  or  die, 
And  every  minute  counted. 

The  trail,  the  buffaloes  had  worn, 

Stretched  broad  before  us  through  the  corn 

And  cane  with  which  it  blended. 

We  knew  for  miles  around  the  gate 

Hid  Indian  guile  and  Tory  hate. 

There  was  no  time  to  hesitate. 

We  galloped  on.     We  spurred  like  Fate, 

As  morn  broke  red  and  splendid. 

No  rifle  cracked.     No  arrow  whirred. 

Above  us  piped  a  forest  bird, 

Then  two  and  three  together. 

We  'd  reached  the  woods.     And  still  no  shout 

Of  all  the  wild  Wyandotte  rout 

And  Shawanese  had  yet  rung  out: 

42 


But  now  and  then  an  Indian  scout 
Flashed  here  and  there  a  feather. 

We  rode  expecting  death  each  stride 
From  fallen  tree  or  thicket  side, 
Where,  snake-like,  they  could  huddle: 
And  well  we  knew  that  renegade,— 
The  blood-stained  Girty, — only  stayed 
His  hate  awhile  before  he  played 
His  hand: — that  Fiend,  who  had  betrayed 
The  pioneers  of  Ruddle. 

And  when  an  arrow  grazed  my  hair 
I  was  not  startled;  did  not  care; 
But  rode  with  rifle  ready. 
A  whoop  rang  out  beyond  a  ford- 
Then  spawned  the  wood  a  yelling  horde 
Of  devils,  armed  with  tomahawk 
And  gun.     I  raised  my  flintlock's  stock 
And  let  'em  have  it  steady. 

Tom  followed  me.     And  for  a  mile 

We  matched  our  strength  with  redskin  guile 

And  often  I  have  wondered 

How  we  escaped.     I  lost  my  gun : 

And  Tom,  whose  girth  had  come  undone, 

Rode  saddleless.     .     .     .     The  summer  sun 

Was  high  when  into  Lexington, 

With  flying  manes  we  thundered. 

Too  late.     For  Todd  at  break  of  day 
Had  left  for  Hoy's;  decoyed,  they  say, 

43 


By  some  reported  story 

Of  new  disaster.     Bryan's  needs 

Cried  "On!" — Although  we  had  done  deeds, 

We  must  do  more,  whatever  speeds. 

We  had  no  time  to  rest  our  steeds, 

Whose  panting  flanks  were  gory. 

Again  the  trail;  rough;  often  barred 
By  rocks  and  trees.     Oh,  it  was  hard 
To  keep  our  souls  from  sinking: 
But  thoughts  of  those  we  'd  left  behind 
Gave  strength  to  muscle  and  to  mind 
To  help  us  on — on,  through  the  blind 
Deep  woods,  where  often  we  would  find 
Our  hearts  of  loved  ones  thinking. 

The  hot  stockade.     No  water  left. 
The  night  attack.     All  hope  bereft 
The  powder-grimed  defender. 
The  warwhoop  and  the  groan  of  pain. 
All  night  the  slanting  arrow-rain 
Of  fire-brands  from  the  corn  and  cane : 
The  fierce  defense,  but  all  in  vain: 
And  then,  at  last,  surrender. 

But  not  for  Bryan's! — No!     Too  well 
Must  they  remember  what  befell 
At  Ruddle's  and  take  warning. 
And  like  two  madmen,  dust  and  sweat, 
We  rode  with  faces  forward  set, 
And  came  to  Boone's.     The  sun  was  yet 
An  hour  from  noon.     .     .     .    We  had  not  let 
Our  horses  rest  since  morning. 
44 


Here  Ellis  heard  our  news:  his  men 
Around  him,  back  we  turned  again, 
And  like  a  band  of  lions — 
That  leap  some  lioness  to  aid,— 
Of  death  and  torture  unafraid, 
We  charged  the  Indian  ambuscade 
And  through  a  storm  of  bullets  made 
Our  entrance  into  Bryan's. 

And  that  is  all  I  have  to  tell. 
No  more  the  Huron's  hideous  yell 
Whoops  to  assault  and  slaughter. 
Perhaps  to  us  some  praise  is  due: 
But  we  are  men,  accustomed  to 
Face  danger,  which  is  nothing  new. 
The  women  did  far  more  for  you, 
Risking  their  lives  for  water. 


45 


MOONSHINERS 

HOW  long  we  had  hid  there  and  listened, 
Where  the  trees  let  in  winks  o'  the  sun, 
'Fore  their  Winchesters  glittered  and  glistened 

In  the  gully  below  by  the  run, 
I  never  kep'  count.     It  wuz  mornin', 

An'  my  legs  wuz  stove  stiff  with  the  chill 
O'  the  night.     But  my  Lize  had  the  warnin* 

An'  we  knew  it  wuz  up  with  the  still 
If  we  ever  give  up  with  our  watchin': 

The  six  on  us — me  an'  Bud  Roe, 
Two  Tollivers,  Dickon  an'  Hotchin — 

An'  the  posse  nigh  twenty  or  so. 

The  evenin'  before  we  had  reckoned 

The  sheriff  would  ride  through  the  glen ; 
An'  it  took  little  less  nor  a  second 

To  see  how  we  'd  manage  it  then ; 
For  the  valley  wound  up  in  a'  alley, 

Blind- walled  with  bald  bluffs;  an'  no  trees 
At  its  bottom;  a  trap  of  a  valley, 

Scrub  thicket  not  high  as  my  knees. 
With  me  an'  the  Tollivers  watchin' 

The  rear,  an'  Bud  Roe  in  the  gap, 
With  Dickon  an'  Hotch  for  the  scotchin', 

We  had  'em  like  rats  in  a  trap. 

So  we  all  took  a  pull  at  the  bottle 

Lize  brung  me  last  evenin' :  an'  though 

We  'd  eaten,  nor  left  whut  would  throttle 
A  fly,  we  wuz  hungry — I  know. 

46 


Then  a  caw  come  hoarse  through  the  quiet: 

We  knew  it  the  signal  they  'd  reached 
The  gully:  an'  when  they  'd  passed  by  it, 

A  hawk — we  had  fixed  it — jest  screeched: 
When  a  pewee  had  whistled,  we  knew  it 

The  signal  the  posse  wuz  in, 
Safe  into  the  trap.    .    .    .   They  would  do  it ! 

An'  we — we  wuz  glad  to  begin. 

A  pistol  each  side  an'  a  rifle 

Or  two  ready  loaded.     Our  height 
Would  help  me  to  aim  jest  a  trifle 

To  left  an'  my  pards  front  an'  right. 
An'  we  laid  in  the  rocks,  never  winkin'- 

Jest  ready.     I  heard  the  dry  buzz 
O'  the  grasshoppers;  thinkin'  an*  thinkin' 

How  lonesome  an'  solemn  it  wuz: 
When  suddent, — I  riz  in  a  hurry,— 

The  laurel  whipped  back — I  could  curse!— 
Lize  could  n't  git  rid  o'  her  worry, 

An'  woman-like  come — fer  the  worse. 

Jest  then  through  the  gully  an'  thicket 

I  seed  the  sun  glim  on  the  stocks 
O'  their  Winchesters.     Slim  as  a  picket 

Lize  stood  by  me  there  in  the  rocks. 
We  waited  until  the  last  came  in. 

I  lined  on  the  leader  an'  said, 
"Shoot!"  hoarsely.     We  ushered  the  game  in 

With  the  sheriff  an'  deputy — dead. 
1 1  wuz  a  surprise  for  'em — certain ! 

They  saw  't  wuz  a  trap,  an'  rid  back; 
But  the  three  in  the  gap  raised  a  curtain, 

With  death-dealin'  crack  upon  crack. 
47 


An'  back  to  the  gully  with  frighted 

Sick  faces  they  galloped,  like  sin; 
An'  we,  in  the  rocks,  lay  an'  sighted, 

An*  hell  jest  happened  agin. 
They  wuz  cornered:  they  seed  it:  an'  grimly 

They  turned  on  their  death:  an'  I  leant 
With  my  gun  on  a  rock,  an'  seed  dimly 

They  rid  fer  us  shoo  tin',  hell-bent 
Through  the  smoke  fer  the  thick  o'  our  fire: 

Then  Lize,  who  wuz  loadin'  a  gun, 
Shrieked  somethin'  an'  jumped — an'  a  wire 

O*  blood  down  her  face.     She  wuz  done. 

There  wuz  six  on  'em  left.     But  a  baby 

Could  of  finished  me  then,  with  her  dead 
Instid  o'  myself!     An'  it  may  be 

The  rest  on  us  there  had  eat  lead 
If  Bud  had  n't  come  with  another. 

Them  three  wuz  enough  fer  the  rest, 
Git  tin'  off  as  they  did! — I  would  bother 

With  nothin',  her  head  on  my  breast. 
But  they  got  me  away;  an'  together 

Brung  her  to  the  cave  with  the  shot 
In  her  face.     May  the  buzzards  now  feather 

And  roost  on  them  there  where  they  rot! 


48 


KENTUCKY 

Written  for  the  bauquet  of  the  New  York  Society  of  Kentuckians,  held 
in  the  City  of  New  York,  February  12th,  1913. 

Y/OU,  who  are  met  to  remember 
*       Kentucky  and  give  her  praise; 
Who  have  warmed  your  hearts  at  the  ember 

Of  her  love  for  many  days! 
Be  faithful  to  your  mother, 

However  your  ways  may  run, 
And,  holding  one  to  the  other, 

Prove  worthy  to  be  her  sons. 

Worthy  of  her  who  brought  you ; 

Worthy  in  dream  and  deed: 
Worthy  her  love  that  taught  you, 

And  holds  your  work  in  heed: 
Your  work  she  weighs  and  watches, 

Giving  it  praise  and  blame, 
As  to  her  heart  she  catches, 

Or  sets  aside  in  shame. 

One  with  her  heart's  devotion, 

One  with  her  soul's  firm  will, 
She  holds  to  the  oldtime  notion 

Of  what  is  good,  what  ill: 
And  still  in  unspoiled  beauty, 

With  all  her  pioneer  pride, 
She  keeps  to  the  path  of  duty, 

And  never  turns  aside. 
4  49 


She  dons  no  new  attire 

Of  modern  modes  and  tricks, 
And  stands  for  something  higher 

Than  merely  politics: 
For  much  the  world  must  think  on,- 

For  dreams  as  well  as  deeds ; 
For  men,  like  Clay  and  Lincoln, 

And  words  the  whole  world  reads. 

Not  for  her  manners  gracious, 

Nor  works,  nor  courage  of 
Convictions,  proud,  audacious, 

Does  she  compel  our  love,— 
But  for  her  heart's  one  passion, 

Old  as  democracy, 
That  holds  to  the  ancient  fashion 

Of  hospitality. 


50 


IN  HOMESPUN 


HOMESPUN 

IF  heart  be  tired  and  soul  be  sad 
As  life  goes  on  in  homespun  clad, 
Drab,  colorless,  with  much  of  care, 
Not  even  a  ribbon  in  her  hair; 
Heart-broken  for  the  near  and  new, 
And  sick  to  do  what  others  do, 
And  quit  the  road  of  toil  and  tears, 
Doffing  the  burden  of  the  years: 
And  if  beside  you  one  should  rise, 
Doubt,  with  a  menace,  in  its  eyes — 
What  then?— 

Why,  look  Life  in  the  face; 
And  there  again  you  may  retrace 
The  dream  that  once  in  youth  you  had 
When  life  was  full  of  hope  and  glad, 
And  knew  no  doubt,  no  dread,  that  trails 
In  darkness  by,  and  sighs,  "All  fails!" 
And  in  its  every  look  and  breath 
A  shudder,  old  as  night,  that  saith, 
With  something  of  finality, 
"There  is  no  immortality!" 
Confusing  faith  who  stands  alone 
Like  a  green  tree  midst  woods  of  stone, 
Who  feels  within  itself  a  change 
Through  contact  with  the  dark  and  strange. 

T  were  better  with  that  Dream,  you  knew 
In  youth,  to  dream  all  dreams  come  true, 

53 


And  follow  Love,  in  homespun  clad, 
As  once  you  did  when  but  a  lad; 
And,  with  the  trusting  heart  of  youth, 
Listened,  and  held  them  for  the  truth, 
The  wondertales  Life  told  to  you — 
Tales,  that  at  last  she  will  make  true. 


54 


A  LIGHT  IN  THE  WINDOW 

RAIN  and  wind  and  candlelight — 
And  let  us  pray  a  prayer  to-night: 

For  every  soul,  since  life  is  brief, 
Little  of  trouble  and  less  of  grief. 

And  set  a  light  at  the  windowpane, 
To  guide  Love  home  through  the  night  and 
rain. 

Rain  and  wind  and  candlelight— 

And  what  shall  we  pray  again  to-night? 

For  every  life,  whose  way  is  dim, 
The  grace  of  God  and  trust  in  Him. 

A  word,  a  song,  till  the  tears  be  dried, 
And  Faith  and  Hope  sit  down  beside. 

Rain  and  wind  and  candlelight— 
And  one  last  prayer  to  pray  to-night: 

For  every  heart  in  the  dark  and  rain 
To  know  its  prayer  is  not  in  vain: 

A  door  flung  wide,  and  a  face  aglow — 
Love  come  back  from  the  Long- Ago. 

Then  let  the  rain  and  the  wind  without 
Threaten  their  worst  and  rave  and  shout: 

55 


For  who  will  care,  though  the  night  is  black — 
Love  to  his  own  has  wandered  back. 

Has   wandered   back    through    the    rain    and 

night, 
Led  home  again  by  her  candle's  light. 


56 


VICTORY 

'"THOUGH  dead  the  flower, 
*    That,  from  her  tower, 
Love  flung  you  in  some  perfect  hour: 

Though  quenched  the  light, 

That,  on  the  height, 

Faith  built,  a  beacon  in  the  fight: 

Though  gone  the  star, 

That,  seen  afar, 

Hope  lit  to  guide  you  through  the  war: 

Yet  draw  your  sword, 
And  shout  your  word, 
And  plunge  into  the  battling  horde! 

Give  Fate  the  lie! 

And,  live  or  die, 

Yours,  yours  shall  be  the  victory! 


57 


HOME 

1  DREAM  again  I  'm  in  the  lane 
That  leads  me  home  through  night  and  rain; 
Again  the  fence  I  see  and,  dense, 
The  garden,  wet  and  sweet  of  sense; 
Then  mother's  window,  with  its  starry  line 
Of  light,  o'ergrown  with  rose  and  trumpetvine. 

What  was  't  I  heard?    Her  voice?    A  bird?— 

Singing? — Or  was  't  the  rain  that  stirred 

The  dripping  leaves  and  draining  eaves 

Of  shed  and  barn,  one  scarce  perceives 

Past  garden-beds  where  oldtime  flowers   hang 

wet- 
Pale  phlox  and  candytuft  and  mignonette. 

The  hour  is  late.     I  can  not  wait. 
Quick.     Let  me  hurry  to  the  gate! 
Upon  the  roof  the  rain  is  proof 
Against  my  horse's  galloping  hoof; 
And  if  the  old  gate,  with  its  weight  and  chain, 
Should  creak,  she  '11  think  it  just  the  wind  and 
rain. 

Along  I  '11  steal,  with  cautious  heel, 

And  at  the  lamplit  window  kneel: 

And  there  she  '11  sit  and  rock  and  knit, 

While  on  her  face  the  light  will  flit, 

As  I  have  seen  her,  many  a  night  and  day, 

Dreaming  of  home  that  is  so  far  away. 

58 


Upon  the  pane,  dim,  blurred  with  rain, 
I  '11  knock  and  call  out,  "Home  again!" 
And  at  a  stride  fling  warm  and  wide 
The  door  and  catch  her  to  my  side — 
Mother!  as  once  I  clasped  her  when  a  boy, 
Sobbing  my  heart  out  on  her  breast  for  joy! 


59 


MOTHER 

,  I  am  going  home  again, 
Back  to  the  old  house  in  the  lane, 
And  mother!  who  still  sits  and  sews, 
With  cheeks,  each  one,  a  winter  rose, 
A-watching  for  her  boy,  you  know, 
Who  left  so  many  years  ago, 
To  face  the  world,  its  stress  and  strain- 
Oh,  I  am  going  home  again. 

Yes,  I  am  going  home  once  more, 
And  mother  '11  meet  me  at  the  door 
With  smiles  that  rainbow  tears  of  joy, 
And  arms  that  reach  out  for  her  boy, 
And  draw  him  to  her  happy  breast, 
On  which  awhile  his  head  he  '11  rest. 
And  care  no  more,  if  rich  or  poor, 
At  home  with  her,  at  home  once  more. 

Yes,  I  am  going  home  to  her, 
Whose  welcome  evermore  is  sure: 
I  have  been  thinking,  night  and  day, 
How  tired  I  am  of  being  away! 
How  homesick  for  her  gentle  face, 
And  welcome  of  the  oldtime  place, 
And  memories  of  the  days  that  were — 
Oh,  I  am  going  home  to  her. 

Oh,  just  to  see  her  face  again 
A-smiling  at  the  windowpane! 

60 


To  see  her  standing  at  the  door 
And  offering  her  arms  once  more, 
As  oft  she  did  when,  just  a  child, 
She  took  me  to  her  heart  and  smiled, 
And  hushed  my  cry  and  cured  my  pain 
I*  m  going  home  to  her  again. 


61 


THE  ROAD  BACK 

walk  with  me  and  Memory; 
^-*  And  let  us  see  what  we  shall  see: — 
A  wild  green  lane  of  stones  and  weeds 
That  to  a  wilder  woodland  leads. 
An  old  board  gate,  the  lichens  crust, 
Whose  ancient  hinges  croak  with  rust. 
A  vale;  a  creek;  and  a  bridge  of  planks, 
And  the  wild  sunflowers  that  wall  its  banks: 
A  path  that  winds  through  shine  and  shade 
To  a  ferned  and  wildflowered  forest  glade; 
Where,  out  of  a  grotto,  a  voice  replies 
With  a  faint  hollo  to  your  voice  that  cries: 
And  every  wind  that  passes  seems 
A  foot  that  follows  from  Lands  o'  Dreams. 
A  voice,  a  foot,  and  a  shadow,  too, 
That  whispers  of  things  your  childhood  knew: 
A  girl  that  waited,  a  boy  that  came, 
And   an   old   beech    tree   where    he    carved    her 

name; 

Where  still  he  sees  her,  whom  still  he  hears 
Bidding     him     come     through      the      long-gone 

years. 

How  oft  she  beckons  your  heart  and  mine 
From  the  farmhouse  window  trailed  deep  with 

vine, 

And  porched  with  roses!  where  all  must  know 
She  used  to  live  in  the  long-ago. 
The  farmhouse  there  at  the  end  o'  the  lane, 
With  the  sunset  twinkling  its  windowpane; 

62 


Where  she  smiles  as  she  smiled  in  the  Long-ago, 
The  farmer's  daughter  you  used  to  know, 
Who  has  not  changed  to  your  heart  for  years, 
Though  her  face  you  often  see  through  tears: 
Who  wears  her  youth,  as  she  did  of  old, 
As  a  princess  weareth  a  crown  of  gold. 
The  little  sweetheart,  you  know  for  truth, 
Who  lives  for  aye  in  the  Land  of  Youth; 
Who  never  dies;  who  is  always  fair, 
With  eyes  of  mischief  and  tomboy  hair: 
Whom  your  heart  still  follows  and  worships,  it 

seems, 
Forever  and  aye  in  the  Land  o'  Dreams. 


63 


THE  FATHER 

"""THERE  is  a  hall  in  every  house, 
•*    Behind  whose  wainscot  gnaws  the  mouse; 
Along  whose  sides  are  empty  rooms, 
Peopled  with  dreams  and  ancient  dooms. 
When  down  this  hall  you  take  your  light, 
And  face,  alone,  the  hollow  night, 
Be  like  the  child  who  goes  to  bed, 
Though  faltering  and  half  adread 
Of  something  crouching  crookedly 
In  every  corner  he  can  see, 
Ready  to  snatch  him  into  gloom, 
Yet  goes  on  bravely  to  his  room, 
Knowing,  above  him,  watching  there, 
His  father  waits  upon  the  stair. 


64 


A  BABY 

WHY  speak  of  Rajah  rubies. 
And  roses  of  the  South? 
I  know  a  sweeter  crimson — 
A  baby's  mouth. 

Why  speak  of  Sultan  sapphires 
And  violet  seas  and  skies? 

I  know  a  lovelier  azure — 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Go  seek  the  wide  world  over! 

Search  every  land  and  mart! 
You  '11  never  find  a  pearl  like  this- 

A  baby's  heart. 


65 


A  SONG  OF  CHEER 

BE  of  good  cheer,  and  have  no  fear 
Of  Fortune  or  Tomorrow: 
To  Hope's  low  whisper  lend  an  ear 
And  turn  away  from  Sorrow. 

Time  out  of  mind  the  soul  is  blind 
To  things  God  sends  as  blessings: 

And  Fortune  often  proves  unkind 
Merely  in  foolish  guessings. 

Within  the  soul  we  bear  the  whole 

Of  Hell  and  also  Heaven; 
And  'twixt  the  two  is  set  the  goal 

Of  dreams  our  lives  have  driven. 

What  counts  above  all  deeds  is  Love, 
And  Friendship,  that,  remember, 

In  heart-beats  keeps  Life's  record  of 
Its  April  and  December. 

To  every  one  come  rain  and  sun, 
And  calm  and  stormy  weather: 

What  helps  is  not  what  Life  has  done, 
But  Life  and  Love  together. 

Of  sun  and  rain  and  joy  and  pain 

The  web  of  Life  is  woven ; 
And  ever  through  it  runs  the  skein 

Of  Hope,  with  strand  uncloven. 

66 


Now  high  in  air  it  glitters  fair; 

Now  dims  beyond  divining; 
But  still  the  thread  winds  golden  there, 

Although  no  longer  shining. 

Be  of  good  cheer  and  have  no  fear 

Of  any  care  or  sorrow; 
The  clouds  at  last  will  disappear, 

And  the  sun  will  shine  tomorrow. 


67 


LITTLE  MESSAGES  OF  JOY  AND  HOPE 

I 
TAKE  HEART 

TAKE  heart  again.    Joy  may  be  lost  awhile. 
It  is  not  always  Spring. 
And  even  now  from  some  far  Summer  Isle 
Hither  the  birds  may  wing. 

II 
TOUCHSTONES 

HEARTS,  that  have  cheered  us  ever,  night  and  day, 
With  words  that  helped  us  on  the  rugged  way, 
The  hard,  long  road  of  life — to  whom  is  due 

More  than  the  heart  can  ever  hope  to  pay- 
Are  they  not  touchstones,  soul-transmuting  true 
All  thoughts  to  gold,  refining  thus  the  clay? 

Ill 

FORTUNE 

17ORTUNE  may  pass  us  by: 

Follow  her  flying  feet. 
Love,  all  we  ask,  deny : 
Never  admit  defeat. 
Take  heart  again  and  try. 
Never  say  die. 

68 


IV 

BE  GLAD 

BE  glad,  just  for  to-day! 
O  heart,  be  glad! 
Cast  all  your  cares  away ! 

Doff  all  that 's  sad! 
Put  off  your  garments  gray ! 
Be  glad  to-day! 

Be  merry  while  you  can ; 

For  life  is  short — 
It  seemeth  but  a  span 

Before  we  part. 
Let  each  maid  take  her  man, 
And  dance  while  dance  she  can : 
Life  's  but  a  little  span- 
Be  merry  while  you  can. 

V 
CARPE  DIEM 

DLOW  high,  blow  low! 
*-*     No  longer  borrow 

Care  of  tomorrow : 
Take  joy  of  life,  and  let  care  go! 


O 


VI 

JOY   SPEAKS 
NE  with  the  Heaven  above 


Am  I — its  bliss: 
Part  of  its  truth  and  love, 
And  what  God  is. 
69 


I  heal  the  soul  and  mind: 

I  work  their  cures: 
Not  Grief,  that  rends  Mankind, 

But  Joy  endures. 

VII 
FOR  THE  OLD 

THESE  are  the  things  I  pray  Heaven  send  us  still,— 
To  blow  the  ashes  of  the  years  away, 
Or  keep  aglow  forever  'neath  their  gray 
The  fire  that  warms  when  Life's  old  house  grows  chill: 
First  Faith,  that  gazed  into  our  youth's  bright  eyes ; 
Courage,  that  helped  us  onward,  rain  or  sun ; 
Then  Hope,  who  captained  all  our  deeds  well  done ; 
And,  last,  the  dream  of  Love  that  never  dies. 


70 


WOMAN  's  a  star,  a  rose; 
Man  but  a  moth,  a  bee: 
High  now  as  heaven  she  glows, 

Low  now  as  earth  and  sea : 
Star  of  the  world  and  rose, 
Clothed  on  with  mystery. 

Ever  a  goal,  a  lure, 

Man,  for  his  joy  and  woe, 
Strives  to  attain  to  her, 

Beating  wild  wings  below, 
Dying  to  make  him  sure 

If  she  be  flame  or  snow. 


71 


EXPERIENCE 

'"THREE  memories  hold  us  ever 
With  longing  and  with  pain ; 

Three  memories  Time  has  never 
Been  able  to  restrain; 
That  in  each  life  remain 
A  part  of  heart  and  brain. 

The  first  's  of  that  which  taught  us 

To  follow  Beauty  still ; 
Who  to  the  Fountain  brought  us 

Of  ancient  good  and  ill, 

And  bade  us  drink  our  fill 

At  Life's  wild-running  rill. 

The  second  one,  that  's  driven 

Of  anguish  and  delight, 
Holds  that  which  showed  us  Heaven, 

Through  Love's  triumphant  might; 

And,  deep  beneath  its  height, 

Hell,  sighing  in  the  night. 

The  third — none  follows  after: 
Its  form  is  veiled  and  dim; 

Its  eyes  are  tears  and  laughter, 
That  look  beyond  the  rim 
Of  earth  and  point  to  Him, 
Who  rules  the  Seraphim. 


72 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR 

HPHE  Spring  may  come  in  her  pomp  and  splendor, 
*      And  Summer  follow  with  rain  and  rose, 
Or  Fall  lead  in  that  old  offender, 

Winter,  close-huddled  up  in  snows : 

Ever  a-South  the  Love-wind  blows 
Into  the  heart,  like  a  vane  a-sway 

From  face  to  face  of  the  girls  it  knows — 
But  which  is  the  fairest  it 's  hard  to  say. 

If  Lydia  smile  or  Maud  look  tender, 
Straight  in  your  bosom  the  gladness  glows; 

But  scarce  at  her  side  are  you  all  surrender, 
When  Gertrude  sings  where  the  garden  grows : 
And  your  heart  is  a-bloom  mid  the  blossoming  rows, 

For  her  hand  to  gather  and  toss  away, 
Or  wear  on  her  breast,  as  her  fancy  goes, 

But  which  is  the  fairest  it 's  hard  to  say. 

Let  Helen  pass,  as  a  sapling  slender, 
Her  cheek  a  berry,  her  mouth  a  rose,— 

Or  Blanche  or  Laura — to  each  you  render 
The  worship  due  to  the  charms  she  shows : 
But  Ruth  's  a  poem  when  these  are  prose ; 

Low  at  her  feet  your  life  you  lay; 
All  of  devotion  to  her  it  owes, — 

But  which  is  the  fairest  it  's  hard  to  say. 

How  can  a  man  of  his  heart  dispose 

When  Bess  and  Clara,  and  Kate  and  May, 

In  form  and  feature  no  flaw  disclose,— 
And  which  is  the  fairest  it  's  hard  to  say. 

73 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  LOVE 

'T'HE  source  of  laughter  lies  so  near  to  tears, 
*      And  pain  to  rapture,  that  one  fountain  flows 
From  forth  the  two — Love's ;  in  whose  deeps  appears 
The  image  of  the  Heaven  each  man  knows. 


74 


HAPPINESS 

ROUND  its  mountain  many  footpaths  wind, 
But  only  one  unto  its  top  attains; 
Not  he  who  searches  closest,  takes  most  pains, 
But  he  who  seeks  not,  that  one  way  may  find. 


ADVERSITY 

A    BARREN  field  o'ergrown  with  thorn  and  weed 
**     It  stays  for  him  who  waits  for  help  from  God: 
Only  the  soul  that  makes  a  plough  of  Need 

Shall  know  what  blossoms  underneath  its  sod. 


76 


LOVE  AND  THE  SEA 

T    OVE  one  day,  in  childish  anger, 
*-*    Tired  of  his  divinity, 
Sick  of  rapture,  sick  of  languor, 
Threw  his  arrows  in  the  sea. 

Since  then  Ocean,  like  a  woman, 

Variable  of  nature  seems: 
Smiling;  cruel;  kind;  inhuman; 

Gloomed  with  grief  and  drowned  in  dreams. 


77 


LOYALTY 

Friendship  drink,  and  then  to  Love, 
*      And  last  to  Loyalty! 
The  first  of  these  were  not  enough 
Without  the  last,  through  whom  we  prove 
That  Love  is  Love,  and  right  enough 
What  Friendship's  self  may  be. 
So  here  's  to  Loyalty! 

A  sword  he  wears,  but  never  a  mask, 

So  all  the  world  may  see. — 
Let  Friendship  set  him  any  task, 
Or  Love — no  question  doth  he  ask, 
But  draws  his  sword  and  does  his  task, 

And  never  takes  a  fee. 

So  here  's  to  loyalty! 


78 


A  TRIED  FRIEND,  A  TRUE  FRIEND 

A    FRIEND  for  you  and  a  friend  for  me, 
**•     A  friend  to  understand; 
To  cheer  the  way  and  help  the  day 

With  heart  as  well  as  hand: 
With  heart  as  well  as  hand,  my  dear, 

And  share  the  things  we  Ve  planned— 
A  tried  friend,  a  true  friend, 

A  friend  to  understand! 

A  friend  for  you  and  a  friend  for  me, 

A  friend  to  hear  our  call, 
When,  wrong  or  right,  we  wage  the  fight 

With  backs  against  the  wall! 
With  backs  against  the  wall,  my  dear, 

When  hope  is  like  to  fall— 
A  tried  friend,  a  true  friend, 

A  friend  to  hear  our  call ! 

A  friend  for  you  and  a  friend  for  me, 

To  share  with  us  that  day 
When  our  ship  comes  back  and  naught  we 
lack 

Of  all  for  which  men  pray! 
Of  all  for  which  men  pray,  my  dear, 

That  long  has  gone  astray— 
A  tried  friend,  a  true  friend, 

To  share  with  us  that  day! 

Oh,  side  by  side,  on  roads  untried, 
Two  souls  may  better  speed 
79 


Than  one  who  goes  the  road  he  knows 
With  none  to  give  him  heed! 

With  none  to  give  him  heed,  my  dear, 
And  help  when  there  is  need — 

A  tried  friend,  a  true  friend, 
A  friend,  a  friend  indeed! 


80 


SO  MUCH  TO  DO 

PHE  face  of  the  world  is  a  homely  face, 
•••      And  the  look  of  the  world  unkind, 
When  harsh  on  your  arm  a  hand  it  lays 

And  bids  you  into  the  grind, 
That  's  little  to  your  mind,  my  dear, 

That  's  little  to  your  mind. 
But  it 's  work  that  counts  in  the  world,  you  see; 

Not  what  we  dream,  but  do: 
For  the  dreamer  of  dreams,  whatever  he  be, 

If  he  'd  have  his  dreams  come  true, 
Must  be  a  workman,  too,  my  dear, 

Must  be  a  workman,  too. 

So  much  to  do;  so  much  to  know; 

So  much  that  life  would  shirk  I 
But  each  is  one  of  a  hive  below, 

The  world's  great  Hive  of  Irk, 
Where  each  must  do  his  work,  my  dear, 

Each  one  must  do  his  work. 
A  song,  a  look,  a  word  of  cheer, 

Will  help  more  than  a  sigh! 
For  this  is  the  law  of  the  hive,  my  dear, 

That  every  bee  must  try,  my  dear, 
And  all  the  drones  must  die,  my  dear, 

That  all  the  drones  must  die. 

Oft-times  it  seems  that  the  end  is  far, 

And  the  work  we  do,  in  vain; 
That  night  will  never  reveal  a  star, 

And  day  bring  only  rain, 
6  81 


To  trouble  our  hearts  again,  my  dear, 

To  trouble  our  hearts  again. 
But  ever  the  stars  are  shining  there 

With  ever  the  old  regard; 
And  be  it  foul,  or  be  it  fair. 

However  long  debarred, 
All  work  has  its  reward,  my  dear, 

All  work  has  its  reward. 

Could  summer  come  without  the  rose? 

Or  morn  without  the  sun? 
And  thus  shall  toil  bring  soul's  repose 

To  each  and  every  one, 
Whose  work  at  last  is  done,  my  dear, 

Whose  work  at  last  is  done. 
For  the  face  of  the  world  is  a  homely  face, 

But  the  look  in  its  eyes  is  kind 
To  him  who  sets  his  heart's  brisk  pace 

To  the  work  he  has  in  mind, 
And  turns  not  with  the  wind,  my  dear, 

And  turns  not  with  the  wind. 


82 


IN  THE  FOREST  OF  LOVE 

VJT7HAT  sighed  the  Forest  to  the  nest? 
W    "So  young,  so  old, 

Love, 

Help  me  to  mold 
This  life  I  hold."— 
What  said  the  bird, 
That  harked  and  heard? 
"Below,  above, 
Love,  love  is  best. — 

Take  heed,  my  Life,  and  quit  thy  quest.— 
The  meaning  of  Love  is  rest." — 
So  spake  the  bird. 

What  cried  the  Nightwind  to  the  trees?— 
"Thou  dream  of  Earth, 

Love, 

Make  me  of  worth 
In  death  and  birth!  "— 
What  said  the  wood 
Stark-still  that  stood? — 
''Below,  above, 
Give  me  increase. 

Take  heed,  my  Heart!  thy  sighings  cease. 
The  meaning  of  Love  is  peace. " 
So  spake  the  Wood. 

What  sobbed  the  Earth  in  deep  and  height?— 
"O  Song  of  Songs, 
Love, 

83 


Unloose  my  thongs, 
And  right  m^  wrongs!"— 
What  said  the  Clod, 
That  dreamed  of  God? — 
"Below,  above, 
Prisoner  of  Night, 
Spirit,  lift  high  thy  taper-light !- 
The  meaning  of  Love  is  might." 
So  spake  the  Clod. 


84 


LOVE,  THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

/'"AVER  the  roar  of  cities, 
^^     Over  the  hush  of  the  hills, 
Mounts  ever  a  song  that  never  stops, 
A  voice  that  never  stills. 

Epic-loud  as  the  sea  is, 

Lyric-low  as  the  dew, 
It  sings  and  sings  a  soul  into  things 

And  builds  the  world  anew. 

Dauntless,  deathless,  stern  but  kind, 

Bold  and  free  and  strong, 
It  sweeps  with  mastery  man's  mind, 

And  rolls  the  world  along. 

From  soul  to  soul  it  wings  its  words, 

And,  lo,  the  darkness  flies; 
And  all  who  heed  that  song  of  songs 

View  Earth  with  other  eyes. 

New  eyes,  new  thoughts,  that  shall  go  on 

Seeing  as  Beauty  sings, 
Until  the  light  of  the  farthest  dawn 

Shall  fold  its  rainbow  wings. 


85 


JOY'S  MAGIC 

JOY'S  is  the  magic  sweet, 
That  makes  Youth's  pulses  beat, 
Puts  music  in  young  feet, 

The  old  heart  hears,  the  sad   heart  hears, 

that  's  near  it: 
And  Joy's  the  pleasant  pain, 
That  holds  us,  heart  and  brain, 
When  Old  Age,  sound  and  sane, 

With  memories  nears,  long  memories  nears 
the  spirit. 

Joy's  is  the  witchery  rare, 
That  on  the  face  of  Care 
Puts  smiles;  and  rapture  where 

Love   holds   her   breath,    her   heart's  wild 

breath,  to  still  her: 
And  Joy  it  is  that  plays 
On  Time's  old  lute  of  days 
As  Life  goes  on  her  ways 

With  thoughts  of  Death,  gray  thoughts  of 
Death,  that  chill  her. 


86 


THE  BEST  OF  LIFE 

\Y7ITH  soul  self-blind 

™    Do  n't  struggle  on  merely  at  last  to  find 
The  best  of  life,  the  dream,  is  left  behind. 

Why  desperately 

Struggle  and  strive?  after  long  years  to  see 
Substance  alone  has  no  reality. 

To  find,  alas! 

The  starry  glitter  in  the  mountain  pass, 
The  light  you  climbed  for  is  no  star,  but  glass. 

Help,  one  and  all! 

Dreamers  we  need,  not  workmen,  for  the  wall— 
The  Tower  of  Beauty  that  shall  never  fall. 


87 


JOY 

VV7HAT  were  this  life  without  her? 
^      Joy,  whose  young  face  is  sweet 
With  dreams  that  flit  about  her, 

And  rapture  wild  of  feet! 
With  hope,  that  knows  no  languor, 

And  love,  that  knows  no  sighs, 
And  mirth,  like  some  rich  anger, 

High-sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

Come!  bid  adieu  to  Sorrow; 

And  arm  in  arm  with  Joy, 
We  '11  journey  towards  Tomorrow, 

And  let  no  Care  decoy 
Our  souls  from  all  clean  Pleasures, 

That  take  from  Time's  lean  hand 
The  hour-glass  he  treasures, 

And  change  to  gold  its  sand. 


THE  ROSE  OF  HOPE 

v  I  'HE  Rose  of  Hope,  how  rich  and  red 
•*•     It  blooms,  and  will  bloom  on,  't  is  said, 
Since  Eve,  in  Eden  days  gone  by, 
Plucked  it  on  Adam's  heart  to  lie, 
When  out  of  Paradise  they  fled, 
With  Sorrow  and  o'erwhelming  Dread, 
It  was  this  flower  that  comforted, 
This  Rose  of  Hope,  that  can  not  die. 
God's  Rose  of  Hope. 

When  darkness  comes,  and  you  are  led 
To  think  that  Hope  at  last  is  dead, 
Take  down  your  Bible;  read;  and  try 
To  see  the  light;  and  by  and  by 
Hope's  rose  will  lift  again  its  head- 
God's  Rose  of  Hope. 


89 


HOPE  ON 

HOPE  on,  dear  Heart,  and  you  will  see 
The  walls  of  worry  fade  and  flee; 
And  sane  of  soul  and  sound  of  mind, 
You  '11  go  your  way  of  life  and  find 
The  paths,  once  barren,  suddenly 
In  blossom;  and  from  Arcady 

The  summer  wind  blow  sweet  and  kind — 
Hope  on,  dear  Heart. 

Think  what  it  'd  mean  to  you  and  me— 
This  life — if  Hope  should  cease  to  be! 

If  Hope  should  die — what  doubts  would  blind! 

What  black  despairs  go  unconfined ! 
What  sorrows  weight  us  utterly! 
Hope  on,  dear  Heart! 


90 


HOPE 

YY7ITHIN  the  world  of  every  man's  desire 
W    Two  things  have  power  to  lift  the  soul  above : 
The  first  is  Work,  who  dons  a  mean  attire; 
The  other,  Love,  whose  raiment  is  of  fire. 

Their  child  is  Hope,  and  we  the  heirs  thereof. 


91 


A  SONG  OF  CHEER 


though  you  part  at  morn! 
Cheer,  though  you  never  part: 
Sigh  not,  nor  look  forlorn  ; 

Never  lose  heart  ! 
For,  to  the  hope  you  don, 
Face  that  your  soul  puts  on, 
Whether  in  sun  or  storm, 
Will  the  world's  face  conform. 

Sing  from  the  start. 

Never  lose  heart. 


92 


WORK 

WHAT  though  the  heart  be  tired, 
The  heart,  that  long  aspired, — 
And  one  high  dream  desired, 

Beyond  attainment's  scope; 
Beyond  our  grasp;  above  us; 
The  dream  we  would  have  love  us, 
That  will  know  nothing  of  us, 
But  merely  bids  us  hope. 

Still  it  behooves  us  never 
From  love  and  work  to  sever, 
To  hold  to  one  endeavor, 

And  make  our  dream  our  care: 
For  work,  at  dawn  and  even, 
Shapes  for  the  soul  a  heaven, 
Wherein,  as  strong  as  seven, 

Can  enter  no  Despair. 

Work,  that  blows  high  the  fire 
Of  hope  and  heart's  desire, 
And  sings  and  dreams  of  higher 

Things  than  the  world's  regard: 
Work,  which  to  long  endeavor, 
And  patient  love,  that  never 
Seems  recompensed,  forever 

Gives,  in  its  way,  reward. 


93 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 

HPHEY  are  the  wise  who  look  before, 
•••       Nor  fear  to  look  behind; 
Who  in  the  darkness  still  ignore 
Pale  shadows  of  the  mind. 

Who,  having  lost,  though  loss  be  much, 

Still  dare  to  dream  and  do: 
For  what  was  shattered  at  a  touch 

It  may  be  mended,  too. 

The  House  of  Life  hath  many  a  door 
That  leads  to  many  a  room; 

And  only  they  who  look  before 
Shall  win  beyond  its  gloom. 

Who  stand  and  sigh  and  look  behind, 

Regretful  of  past  years, 
No  room,  of  all  those  rooms,  shall  find 

That  is  not  filled  with  fears. 

'T  is  better  not  to  stop  or  stay; 

But  set  all  fear  aside, 
Fling  wide  the  door,  whate'er  the  way, 

And  enter  at  a  stride. 

Who  dares,  may  win  to  his  desire; 

Or,  failing,  reach  the  tower, 
Whereon  Life  lights  the  beacon-fire 

Of  one  immortal  hour. 


94 


CORNCOB  JONES 

An   Oldham-County   Weather  Philosopher. 

"\Y/ho  is  Corncob  Jones?"  you  say. 

*»     Beateningest  man  and  talkingest 
Talk  and  talk  th'  enduring  day, 

Never  even  stop  to  rest, 
Keep  on  talking  that  a-way, 

Talk  you  dead,  or  do  his  best. 

We  were  there  in  that  old  barn, 
Loafing  'round  and  swapping  lies: 

There  was  Wiseheart,  talking  corn, 
Me  and  Raider  boosting  ryes, 

When  old  Corncob  sprung  a  yarn 
Just  to  give  us  a  surprise. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "the  twelvth  of  May 

'Bout  ten  year  ago,  why  I 
Rickolects  it  to  the  day, 

By  statistics  hit  wuz  dry, 
But  hit  must  have  rained,  I  say, 

'Cause; — well,  I  remember  why. 

"Fer  that  night  it  'gin  to  blow 
And  to  rain,  an'  rained  a  week; 

When  hit  stopped  hit  'gun  to  show 
Here  an'  there  a  clearin'  streak, 

Then  set  in  to  sleet  an'  snow — 

Blamededst  weather!  simply  freak! 


95 


"An'  the  fruit  wuz  killt;  the  corn, 
Gin'ral,  an*  the  gardin  truck.— 

That  's  experience,  an*  no  yarn. 
You  can't  put  hit  down  to  luck, 

But  to  Natur',  whar  we  larn 

Common  sense,  we  do,  by  Huck! 

"Why,  as  I  have  said  to-fore," 

(Here  he  aimed  a  streak  of  brown 

At  a  hornet  on  the  floor, 

Got  him  too)  "you  put  hit  down 

To  experience,  nothin'  more,— 
Whut  they  call  hit  there  in  town. 

"Natur'  jest  rubs  in  the  thing — 
Jest  won't  let  a  man  ferget; 

Keeps  hit  up  spring  arter  spring — 
Why? — Jest  'cause,  now  you  kin  bet, 

Blamed  blackberries  bloom,  by  Jing! 
They  jest  need  the  cold  an'  wet. 

"Every  time  the  twelvth  o'  May 

Cums  around,  hit  's  bound  to  rain, 

Almost  to  the  very  day, 

Then  hit  turns  an'  snows  again. 

That  's  experience,  I  say, 

Whut  we  gets  here,  in  the  main." 

"Talkin'  'bout  experience — 

It  don't  help  so  much,"  I  said; 
"Not  as  much  as  common  sense. "- 

Here  old  Corncob  shook  his  head, 
Spat  and  said,  "Well  that  depen's 
On  whut  common  sense  is,  Ned." 
96 


Then  old  Wiseheart  says,  says  he, 
"Common  sense  is  somethin'  more. 

Common  sense  comes  nat' rally. 
Nothin'  helps  hit,  that  I  'm  shore; 

But  hit  helps  the  one,  you  see, 

That  't  was  borned  with,  rich  er  poor.' 

Then  says  Corncob,  "Talkin'  now 
Of  experience. — That  wuz  what 

We  wuz  talkin'  'bout. — Somehow 
You  got  stalded— missed  the  spot,— 

Barbwired  both  yerself  an'  plough.— 
An'  ye  have  n't  proved  a  jot. 

"You  can't  git  along,  you  know, 

'Thout  experience. — Whar  'd  we  be, 

If  we  missed  hit? — Helps  me  so 
I  kin  reckin,  acktually, 

When  hit  's  goin'  to  rain  er  snow, 
Er  turn  hot  er  cold;"  says  he. 

"Jest  by  thinkin'  back,  by  Jack! 

Hit  's  not  whut  the  weather  is, 
But  whut  hit  wuz  oncet,  long  back 

In  the  times  whut  's  gone. — Gee  whiz! 
No  man  needs  an  almanack 

If  he  only  notices. 

"Weather? — Why,  sirs,  summer  er  fall 

We  kin  lay  hit  by  the  heels. 
Hit  cums  easy,  natural, 

Jest  like  set  tin'  down  ter  meals. 
Jest  take  notice,  that  is  all. 
Don't  rely  on  how  hit  feels. 
97 


'That  's  experience. — Larn  to  know 
Whut  is  whut,  an'  then  take  heed. 

So  it  cums  we  reap  an'  sow 
Jest  accordin'  as  we  've  seed 

How  't  wuz  done  long  years  ago, 
An'  so  profit; — that  's  my  creed." 

Blamededst  man  you  ever  met, 
This  old  Corncob.     Had  a  way 

Of  convincing  you,  you  bet, 

By  just  facts,  as  you  might  say; 

Tell  you  when  'twas  dry  or  wet, 
And  what  'twould  be  to  the  day. 


98 


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